By Invitation Only
by sydneysages
Summary: A year ago, Connie gave Elle an invitation to a fancy charity fundraiser to spite Sam Strachan. But after the last year's events, Connie now has no interest in attending. Enlisting the help of Dylan, who's somehow managed to land himself with additional responsibility through a misspoken conversation, Elle sets herself the task of getting Connie Beauchamp to the ball. Two-parter
1. Plotting

Okay so this started out as a "Elle and Connie get ready for something together" sort of premise from a prompt by Roxannamacmillan on tumblr and it's now turned into an ED Consultants two-parter with a ridiculous number of side pieces. And this is just meant to be a warmup for my return to Strachamp...

* * *

A busy morning of saving patients, two cups of coffee, and a secretive dose of the medicine her oncologist recommends she continues to take for another few weeks later, Connie sits down for the first time since she arrived at work. _Not_ exactly the work practices that she had sworn to her doctor that she would follow – though if they actually believed that she'd stick to their recommendations, the joke's on them.

A cursory glance over her office reminds her, once again, that she needs to take a few minutes to organise it again. Ethan's brief tenure has cast a shadow over her office; everything's the same – but not quite. A set of files switched around, the filing cabinet not quite square (though why Ethan would need to go _behind_ a filing cabinet is beyond her), her fruit bowl languishing empty in the corner of the room…it's little signs which remind her that she hasn't been here for months. That her team saw her weak, defenceless. That she isn't the strong ice queen she once was (though whether she's been that for the last three years, she has to question even herself).

Her fingers run over the top of the desk, silently cursing Ethan for whatever substance he's spilled on her once-pristine desk, as she gravitates towards the second drawer down. This is where her temporary replacement unceremoniously dumped all of her personal effects, and then anything addressed to her that arrived after her departure. There's no time like the present, she supposes, to start to restore the image of _Connie Beauchamp: Clinical Lead_ in her own mind at least.

As she places a framed photo of Grace back on the desk – and ignores the heartwrench that accompanies any mention or sign of her daughter – she notices a piece of black card in her drawer. Picking it up, she sees that it's the invitation to the 14th Annual Cardiothoracic Foundation Trust Ball, the event that she had established and coordinated for six years. She'd forgotten about it, how foolish of her to forget.

But perhaps this year…perhaps this year, she'll deign not to attend. Despite her R.S.V.P being assumed as a yes…this year, she doesn't need to go. She doesn't need to be reminded of what she once was – _who_ she was. She needs to learn who the new, post-trauma Connie Beauchamp is, and accept that for her blessings and her sins.

With a small intake of breath, Connie drops the piece of card back into the now-empty drawer and slams it shut, making a mental note to get the drawer closers replaced. Whatever Ethan Hardy has managed to do to her office in just four months in charge, she doubts she'll ever fully understand.

* * *

…

Gritting her teeth and playing with the pen tucked into her ponytail, Elle Gardner listens to what is quite frankly the most painful drivel she has ever had the misfortune of hearing down the telephone from some member of the blood analysis team.

"Look," Elle says, her usual good nature replaced with the steely hard edge that had only occasionally emerged in Holby City Hospital. "I just need a time when my bloods are going to be ready. I don't need to know the reason why they're late."

The assistant continues to babble.

"A time," Elle repeats, channelling her inner Connie Beauchamp in her desire to just get a set of goddamn bloods. It isn't like she's asking for anything special, just FBCs. And given that her patient's been waiting an additional hour to the usual wait time, she wants her bloods.

"Um…thirty minutes?"

"Fine," Elle agrees, and feels slightly guilty. "I'll expect a phone call at…twelve forty on the dot. Thank you." And, with that, she hangs up, a strange sense of regret mixed with the relief at finally getting something done in the increasingly stretched NHS.

A slow round of applause comes from across the workstation and, without even looking, Elle knows that it's Jacob. They've been on tenterhooks around each other recently, given the whole revelation about her youngest son's parentage, but this feels…normal.

"I have to admit, I saw Elle but I _heard_ Connie," Jacob jokes, and Elle opens her mouth to respond before she closes it again. The joke that was just ready to roll off her tongue…was not a joke at all. Especially to her.

"Yes, well, I have to admit that it works," Elle replies, a small smile slipping onto her lips. "Anyone's free to say anything, of course, but you have to admit that being overstretched is _marginally_ easier to deal with when Connie's around."

"Marginally," Jacob replies, his eyes softening. With every second of this conversation, he seems more and more like the Jacob who had warmly welcomed her on that fateful first day of them working together. "Anyway, I'll see you later – her majesty in cubicle three thinks that I'm here at her beck and call…"

"See you," Elle agrees and, as he walks away, her phone buzzes.

Perplexed at the noise due to the fact that her phone is perpetually on do not disturb, Elle digs it out of her pocket to see an alert appear.

 _One week until the fancy ball!_

With a sudden jolt of remembrance, Elle recalls a very brief long-ago conversation with Connie approximately this time last year. It was after the trial – well after, by her recollection – and they were in the awkward limbo whilst working out exactly what Elle's role in the department would be. Plus, Elle remembers with a smile, there was all the flirting with Sam Strachan, poorly disguised as Sam's vendetta against the Emergency Department's Consultants.

In this context, Connie had received her annual two invitations for the following year's ball, just when Elle happened to be in her office. She had cast a furtive glance at Sam at the workstation – followed swiftly by a glare which could have killed a sinner – before looking purposefully at Elle.

"As second in department," Connie had begun, without preamble, "I think it's only _fair_ that you have this second ticket."

"What's it for?" Elle had asked.

A small smile slipped onto Connie's lips, clearly despite herself. "An invitation for a celebration I invoked whilst on Darwin," she explained, keeping her eyes firmly trained on Sam Strachan outside of her office. Elle couldn't tell at this point whether she was hearing things, but she was fairly certain that Connie's voice had increased in volume. "It's a _very_ prestigious event, and is by invitation only."

Sam had turned around then and, at that point, Elle became aware that she had become entangled in the complex Beauchamp-Strachan politics purely because of where she was standing.

"Look, I really don't need to go," Elle had insisted, lifting her hands and taking a step back as Sam had approached the open office door.

"Ah, the ball tickets," Sam had commented. "Fairly certain that they're for the two most senior members of staff in the department, Connie."

And at that point, Connie had fixed him with a stare that had scared even Elle. "Which is exactly what I'm doing," had been her acerbic response, holding out a posh black invitation – it was on thicker card than Elle had ever seen before.

In a strange moment of solidarity with her Clinical Lead – or perhaps it was the combined girl power – Elle had accepted it. "Thanks, Connie."

That day hasn't been spoken of since, with the exception of one very short conversation with Sam Strachan the following day about whether she _really_ wanted to go. At which point, she had gotten her phone out, inserted the event into her calendar and, for good measure, had created a reminder alert one week before.

With a deep breath, Elle takes a peek towards Connie's office. She looks distracted, which isn't necessarily the best thing. Or, perhaps, it's exactly the way that she should be.

But Elle decides that today isn't the ideal day to broach the ball. Best to wait until a couple of days before, so that it's too uncomfortable for Connie to try and renege on her invitation.

(As she walks away towards her next patient, Elle wonders whether Connie's secretly regretting not letting Sam have the ticket…as he wouldn't have been here to go, anyway…)

* * *

…

"Connie, have you got a minute?"

Standing at the workstation just outside of her office, signing off on what is hopefully the last of the day's patients, Connie looks up at Dylan Keogh's words.

"I suppose," she replies, a dark, acerbic joke flashing through her mind, barely leaving a trace.

"In private?" Dylan pushes, and Connie has to resist rolling her eyes. Of all of her consultants, Dylan Keogh is potentially the most dramatic of them all.

"Very well – my office is open, I'll be through in a moment," Connie assures him, and turns her attention back to the paperwork. She needs to make sure that everything – absolutely everything – is perfect. Because…what if something happens to her again? She can't leave this place a mess, can she?

Within five minutes, she's back in her office, closing the door behind her. Dylan's pensive expression is broken when he belatedly realises that the Clinical Lead has returned to her office.

"Yes?" Connie begins the conversation, her tone acerbic. Part of her is under the strangest impression that Dylan Keogh might be about to ask if she's okay – the most unlikely of candidates to show concern for her well-being. And, in response to this fear, she decides that, once more, she cannot show weakness. Even to Dylan.

"Are you okay?" Dylan begins the conversation, and Connie snorts. If she was a gambling woman, she would have placed a bet.

"I do hope that you've not called a private meeting in _my_ office just to ask if I'm okay, Dylan," Connie replies, her tone stern.

Dylan blinks, but looks unfazed by her response; clearly, she's become predictable.

"Connie, it isn't any small feat, what you've gone through," he begins, trailing off as Connie holds a hand up.

"If I want to talk to you about my health or feelings – which I'm sure you're not particularly comfortable with – I'll be sure to seek you out," Connie says, only a hint of sarcasm in her tone. "Now…is there anything else?"

For the first time in the conversation, Dylan looks torn. Torn between what, Connie is suddenly desperate to find out, because it isn't like her most trusted Consultant to act like this.

"Er...yes," he begins, much more hesitantly than when he had been asking her about her health. "It's about the new F1. Well, not really new, she arrived a few weeks after you…went away."

"Dr Kinsella?"

"Yes, her. I…I question the idea that Ethan should be her mentor…"

Connie's curiosity is truly piqued now. "And why is that, Dylan?"

"He's the primary reason she left," he replies bluntly. As usual, Dylan isn't one for gossip, and Connie appreciates his candour. "He chose pining over some woman rather than helping an F1 with a difficult resus case; her lack of experience led to her making a mistake, taking something at face value…she needed to be challenged to make sure that she was doing everything, and he wasn't there to do that."

"Well, a mentor who pushes you too hard is usually a good mentor," Connie begins. "And I'm sure that Ethan will rectify his mistake."

Dylan snorts. "He wasn't pushing her too hard, Connie, that's the point!"

"And what would you suggest instead?" Connie retorts. "Your questioning of my health suggests that you think I'm not up to the job – let alone taking on an _F1_. Doctor Gardner's hardly likely to want a mentee, either. So that leaves you. And are you going to be caring when necessary, supportive, and generally the best sort of mentor?"

There's a moment of silence, where she can almost see Dylan visibly weighing up the options; he chose to raise this concern therefore, really, he should be the one to offer a solution. Can he have a mentee, here? There's the question that Connie doesn't know quite enough about to guess at an answer regarding his ex-wife, Sam Nicholls, and her role in Dylan's sorry mess of a life.

"I suppose…yes," Dylan finally answers. "I'll mentor her – provided you are happy with the arrangement."

Shrugging slightly, Connie sits back in her chair and feels some of the tension relax from her. Whether that's tension, though, or a sign of illness, she doesn't know – and she desperately needs to check.

"Very well," Connie agrees, picking up her pen. "Ask Doctor Hardy to come in here, I'll let him know the situation."

* * *

…

In September 2017, in a last-ditched, perhaps poorly thought out plan to try and distract Connie from the loss of her daughter, Elle Gardner established a 'Holby City ED Consultants Chat' on Whatsapp, for reasons twofold. Firstly, she wanted a place for them to actually pass on confidential information or have frank work discussions – in the form of one word answers, largely – without any of the junior doctors involved. And, secondly, she wanted there to be a _chance_ of the three of them bonding over life outside of just happening to work in a hospital together.

Despite a brief interlude in Connie's absence of conversation regarding work – instead, Elle just continued to give an account of her daily life, albeit more potted in the hope that this would stop Connie from removing herself from the group – the group has survived until the present. Largely – well, almost entirely – because of Elle's intervention and participation, of course.

Connie generally replies to the work questions with a concise answer, unless she perceives the question only being asked in order to bring life to the group, in which case she doesn't. A grand total of two times has she replied to Elle's personal life ramblings, which Elle counts as a major personal achievement.

Dylan, on the other hand, almost completely ignores the group except for the occasional pithy response to an almost pointless question. Usually after his participation, he and Elle are like ships in the night at work, so she can't build on the momentum of his message: something, Elle recognises, is probably deliberate.

And so, on this ridiculously rainy Tuesday night in May, Elle grabs her phone and thinks of the best way to frame the question she wants to ask Connie. It needs to be obvious enough that it isn't lost in the sometimes overkill amount of detail Elle provides about her daily life, yet obscured enough so that Connie doesn't feel attacked or any other emotion which may prompt her to not respond.

Therefore, buried somewhere beneath the discussion about the benefits versus the issues with putting dried fruit in porridge (a conversation held entirely by Elle) and before a request for some time off towards the end of August, Elle slips in the question: _Connie, are we still attending the Cardiothoracic Ball thing next week?_

It's almost agonising, waiting for the response, and so Elle sets the phone down on the side and limits herself to checking it once a minute. She tries to distract herself by watching a hilariously funny yet strange sitcom on the television, munching on crisps to try and keep her hands away from her phone, until she hears the ping she's been waiting for. To make sure that she never misses an extremely rare response, she's established a ring tone specifically for this group – even if the fact that the buzzing usually scares her senseless, due to the normally silent nature of her phone communications.

The response is curt and to the point – and the opposite of what Elle wanted to see. _I'm not going. Feel free to attend_.

Almost annoyed, Elle has to force herself to set her phone down. She can completely understand the reasons why Connie doesn't want to attend the ball – they're probably in double figures, despite it being a celebration of her creation. The fact that she's appeared weak to everyone in the department is probably number one – or it could be the fact that she chose Elle of all people to accompany her. But Elle's clear on one thing: her understanding of cancer and its lasting effects make her convinced that Connie needs to find a way to get back to her former, ball-busting self.

With a decisive nod to nobody in particular, Elle vows to herself to make sure that Connie Beauchamp attends the ball – no matter what obstacles she may throw in her way.

* * *

…

With the greatest of efforts, Elle manages to make herself not send a single message to the group after Connie's response – though those 17 hours are some of the hardest of her life. It's all part of her plan to get Connie to the ball; a potentially extremely flawed plan, but a plan nonetheless.

And the first obstacle to overcome is Dylan Keogh.

Entering the staffroom for the first time more than halfway through her shift, Elle notices that the only other occupant is Dylan.

"Ah, Dylan!" Elle exclaims with a smile, closing the door behind her. "Just the man I wanted to see. How are you?"

He turns to look at her with his usual expression: disdain, with a hint of amusement…or at least that's what she _thinks_ it is. She's not quite managed to crack Dylan.

"I'm fine," he replies shortly, the lack of reciprocation not unusual. Though he does then pause and add, "what time are you on shift until?"

"Seven," she replies. "You?"

He snorts. "Me too. I assume that that means our former Clinical Lead is on the twilight shift." For a split second, Elle thinks that he's talking about his arch-nemesis, Sam Strachan, until she realises that he's talking about Ethan. Bless the lad – but that isn't the conversation that she wants to have now.

"So…Dylan, you may have noticed that I haven't messaged our group for a few hours now," Elle begins confidently, resisting the urge to wave her phone in his face.

"Really? I hadn't noticed," Dylan replies, and she can't tell if the sarcasm is genuine or not. "It's been strange to not have my phone buzzing so consistently it's like a hoard of flies are perpetually in my pocket."

"A swarm," Elle corrects swiftly. "And anyway, good. That's good. That's actually what I wanted."

Dylan sighs. "Elle, tell me that you're not playing some form of game. Or, actually, tell me you are. Either way, I don't care."

Approaching him at the breakfast bar, Elle leans across the table so that she can look directly at Dylan – even if he isn't looking directly at her.

"Dylan. You saw that she isn't going to the ball – _her_ ball! I just have a small plan. It would involve _one_ conversation on your part. _One_. I'm doing the leg work."

His lack of response suggests to her that, for the first time, he might be willing to get involved in one of her schemes.

"So, I'm thinking…I won't message the group for two days, maybe three. Then, you go to Connie and express concern at my lack of messaging…this gets her thinking and…gets her to somehow go to the ball." She takes a breath before adding, "I know, I know, I need to think of a way to end the plan," in response to a sceptical look from Dylan.

"Very well," Dylan replies, sounding as though he already regrets his decision. "As long as you manage to go _three_ days without messaging the group, I'll go along with your hairbrained scheme. But I'm not doing anything beyond raising a yellow flag for Connie – she has to do the rest."

"You are an _angel_ ," Elle responds, reaching out across the breakfast bar to grasp Dylan's shoulders in what turns out to be the closest thing to a hug that they've ever experienced. "Thanks, Dylan. I'll let you know when it's been three days."

* * *

…

Three silent days pass far too quickly for Dylan's liking, and a private message from Elle – something he wasn't aware was possible on this group messaging app – informs him that it's time for his part in this ridiculous, hair-brained scheme. Why does he care if Connie goes to a ball?

Though, deep down, he does. He recognises the strain his colleague has put herself under in an attempt to appear almost super-human with her return to work, as well as creating yet more walls and yet greater distance between herself and the rest of the team, as though this will mask the fact that they've seen her vulnerable. They're more alike than he would normally admit, and for that reason he can guess that she hasn't deigned to inform her remaining family of her illness, choosing instead to simply try and get by as well as she can on her own. After all, when there's one girl in the world that believes Connie is almost invincible, why would Connie want to shatter that illusion?

Taking a deep breath, Dylan approaches the closed door of the Clinical Lead's office, noticing with a frown that Connie's not facing her desk. Instead, her chair is rotated away from the door, and he can't see her head – which suggests that she's hunched over.

He waits a moment, then two, to see if she moves, but she doesn't. Unwilling to invade her personal space without warning, he knocks three times in quick succession, noting with almost alarm how quickly she jumps up in her chair, before hesitantly spinning back to face the front.

"Enter," Connie calls, somewhat distractedly, though whether that's because she fears Dylan is here to stage a second intervention is unclear.

"Morning Connie," Dylan begins, keeping his tone even so as to attempt to avoid suspicion.

It doesn't work, however, as Connie's eyes immediately narrow. "What is it?" A more irritated expression appears on her face as she continues, "I hope you're not here to ask if I'm _well_ again."

"No, no, not at all," he replies hastily, taking a seat in the chair opposite her desk. A cursory glance around reveals the fact that she has already re-established her control over the office: gone are Ethan's attempts at renovating the office. The fruit bowl is back in pride of place, along with a solitary framed photograph of Grace, and a strangely endearing covering across the filing cabinet at the back of the room. There is no doubt that this office is once again the lair of one Connie Beauchamp.

"Then what is it?" Connie retorts, her expression clearing. "Paperwork doesn't just do itself, you know." Her tone is lighter and more breezy than normal, and Dylan has a sneaking suspicion that she's trying to assess whether he noticed anything amiss before knocking. Or perhaps he's overestimating her attempts to psychoanalyse members of her department.

"It's about Elle," he replies, as offhand as he dares. "I'm sure you've noticed the surprising lack of notifications from that god-awful group that she established for us."

One corner of Connie's lips quirks slightly. "Well, I think that is perhaps a slight exaggeration."

He fixes her with a deadpan stare. "So you mean to say you _enjoy_ hearing every single fact about Elle Gardner's life?"

"That is quite clearly not what I meant," Connie begins to answer back, before cutting herself off. "Anyway, continue."

Sighing inwardly, Dylan continues. He was hoping that she would take the bait and roll with it – but apparently Connie Beauchamp is harder to play than he had anticipated.

"Well, my phone hasn't tried to buzz itself off a table recently, which is strange as that's all it's tried to do for almost a year," Dylan comments. "And, as we both know, Elle is the primary contributor to this group – it will fall apart without her."

"So?" Connie retorts, shrugging slightly. "You're clearly not a fan of the group, Dylan. Why do you care?"

"Because it's clear that something is wrong with Elle," he replies immediately, cursing his former self for participating in this stupid quest. "And you need to talk to her to work out what it is."

A solitary eyebrow lift is followed by a snort from Connie.

" _Me?_ " Connie clarifies. "Dylan, I'm hardly number one on her Christmas card list. You're concerned, you do it!"

"With great power comes great responsibility," Dylan quotes, standing up; his role is done. He has no desire to hang around and have to thrash out an arrangement with Connie regarding Elle when it's clearly a scam. Or maybe Elle really is broken by her lack of commenting in the group. "And when you chose to be Clinical Lead, you chose the responsibility of looking after your staff. So find out what's wrong, Connie."

With that, he sweeps out of her office, only to be accosted immediately by Bea Kinsella. Only three days later, he's beginning to regret the role of mentor he ascribed himself.

"Doctor Keogh!" Bea exclaims, proffering an iPad with an extremely unhealthy looking liver on it. "Er, the patient in Bay 6's results are in. I think we need to admit him straight away and send him up to Kellar."

"You do that then," Dylan replies, barely keeping the edge from his tone. It's best to wait at least a week before introducing his actual personality; that's something he figured out back at King's, a long time ago. "And if you find her, tell Doctor Gardner that I'm looking for her."

Not quite begrudgingly and yet not quite of his own accord, Dylan pauses and turns back to face the already retreating Bea Kinsella.

"Oh, and Doctor Kinsella?" Dylan calls, noticing how quickly his mentee turns around. "Good work on Bay 6. Carry on, and I think we'll make a great doctor out of you."

* * *

Please let me know what you think!


	2. Planning

Sincere apologies for the delay in posting (well, writing) the second part of this. It's probably terrible and is a little convoluted, so I apologise, but I hope that you enjoy it.

NOTICE: I started to write this back in May as a friendship fic. I think it still predominantly is that, but there are also some suggestions to the contrary in some of the phrasing. If you want to read it as Conelle, please feel free to! I'm not entirely sure how I stand at the moment. And this is an extremely JKR 'Dumbledore is Gay' in the way it sounds, so also feel free to ignore this notice if it reminds you too much of that!

* * *

Most of the rest of Connie Beauchamp's shift is spent dealing with problems which, in any other department, would either be resolved by one of her subordinates or just wouldn't have arisen in the first place. Unfortunately, the state of Holby City Hospital's Emergency Department means that nobody seems to take responsibility for their mistakes, her 'problem-solving' subordinates are some of the primary _causes_ of her headaches, and personal life woes seem to take precedent over actual patient care for some of her staff.

All of this combined with an insanely high number of patients for a Tuesday afternoon mean, with the exception of a short five minutes where she ate enough food to be able to take her medication without throwing up, Connie's not had a moment to herself to even think about the problem Dylan posed earlier, let alone act on it.

However, with the arrival of the twilight team and a reduction in patient numbers, she's managed to designate a grand total of ten minutes to concurrently reflect on the day and think about the stilted, strange conversation with Dylan Keogh earlier. Of all of her doctors – hell, of all of the members of staff in the Emergency Department – she never expected _Dylan Keogh_ to be the one raising not just one but two concerns about staffing. Particularly not about Elle Gardner, someone who he seems to tolerate at best.

Well, Connie amends mentally, that isn't fair. She doesn't know anything about their relationship, just as she knows almost nothing about any interpersonal relationship in the department outside of the workplace. Though, she has to admit, it's even less likely that Dylan and Elle would have little meet ups for coffee and to discuss their hair than it would be for herself to be substituted in, for either party. His struggle to cope with even an occasional message to their rather superfluous group chat is well known across the hospital, not just within the department.

And, she has to admit, she had had at least a minor concern for Elle, due to the sheer silence of the ghastly chat. Though perhaps ghastly isn't the right word – whilst it's certainly an annoyance to read about someone's thoughts on peanut butter's place in the hierarchy of spreads for toast (a hierarchy that Connie had, previously, never even contemplated), she can't quite shake the feeling that without the chat, she would have felt even more alone across these past eight months than she already has. Having lost Grace, Sam _and_ her department for varying periods of time, the chat was her only connection with the outside world for a longer period than she's willing to admit even to herself.

With a deep breath, Connie reaches into her pocket and retrieves her mobile, scrolling through to the messaging app which is only used for the Consultants Chat – though Ric Griffin had tried, upon her first use of Whatsapp, to change their primary communication from email to instant messaging and failed miserably – to assess the situation for herself. It's worse than she realised. After an intense few days, she had failed to realise how long her phone had been silent for. Well, silent for this chat, for the position of Clinical Lead provides more than ample phone calls and emails. But the Consultants Chat, well, it's been silent for three days – which is two days longer than Elle's previous record.

Setting her phone on the table gently, Connie thinks about the best way to approach this problem. Had it been a concern about Elle's clinical practice, the route would be extremely clear. However with this more _pastoral_ problem, the resolution wasn't anywhere near as clear. Would a message to the group be considered an attempt at resolving this? or would a face-to-face conversation – thus inherently much more awkward – be a stronger way to ensure that Elle Gardner's wellbeing is confirmed?

With a deep breath, Connie makes the decision to initiate a conversation in the Consultants Chat for what is likely the third time in its increasingly lengthy existence. And it's certainly the first one that is about anything other than rotas or a staff meeting.

 _How are we all this evening?_

Before pressing send, however, Connie shuts the phone off with the side button. Better, she thinks in retrospect, to send it when she's at home and there's no opportunity for Elle to come bursting into her office to discuss any of the hugely varied events going on in her life. Because then, when it's apparent that nothing's wrong, she can go back to ignoring most of the messages.

As she moves to stand, her phone lights up. Thinking that it may _finally_ be a response from the director of human resources regarding her repeated requests for the increased funding for emergency nursing to be filtered down to her department, Connie picks it up.

Instead, she's surprised to see an alert which she can't even remember setting.

 _Cardio Ball – Friday, 7pm_

Not, of course, that she should remember setting it. When she first got an iPhone, she set up the event as recurring yearly, and syncing it with her work calendar ensured that the date changed itself. She's had no responsibility but to turn up and look fabulous for the last four years.

With a deep breath, Connie forces herself to pretend that she hasn't seen the notification. She doesn't want to go. She doesn't need to go. To try and go would be to pretend that she's the same person that she was – and she doesn't have the energy for that, to hide her weaknesses and her scars beneath the veneer so carefully crafted for so many years.

"Ah, Mrs Beauchamp, have you got a minute?" The door is open and the words are spoken before Connie can even blink, though she's able to at least muster a neutral expression on her face.

"Very well," she replies primly, "and Doctor Kinsella? Make sure that you _wait_ for an answer in future."

"Sure thing, boss," the F1 replies, causing Connie's thoughts to turn entirely towards implementing a mandatory course of professionalism for her varied staff.

* * *

…

Sitting at home with a sharing bag of popcorn in one hand and an extra large glass of wine in the other in an attempt to switch off from a day from hell, Elle Gardner is surprised to hear her phone buzz. With the exception of their extremely short conversation the other night regarding the Consultants Ball, Elle's phone hasn't made a sound in weeks. Without fail, the sound of the ringtone (and the accompanying buzzing which almost causes it to fall off the arm of the sofa) causes Elle to jump, resulting in half of the popcorn falling on the floor and the other half on her youngest son.

"Oi, Mum!" Blake shouts, standing up and causing the remainder of the popcorn to join its brethren on the floor.

"Sorry, sorry," Elle mutters, careful to avoid spilling any of her wine as she picks up her phone. "Just leave it, Blake, we both know that I'll be the one cleaning it up, anyway," she continues, sighing as she waits for her phone to light up. "Why aren't you working?" she adds towards the phone.

"What?" Blake asks, clearly confused by the entire exchange.

"Nothing, sweetie," Elle adds, her distraction causing her to not even look in her son's direction. "Go and get some more popcorn, would you?"

As she proffers the bowl towards her son, her phone finally brings up her latest message in the Consultants Chat. Almost immediately, a warm glow passes over her face and feels like it's descending into her core. Her plan's worked!

 _How are we all this evening?_

Whilst not _exactly_ the response that Elle expected – though, if she's perfectly honest with herself, she isn't entirely sure what action she would have expected from her icy Clinical Lead – she's counting it as a major win for psychological mindgames against Connie Beauchamp. Clearly, a combination of Dylan's subtle suggestion and a realisation that Elle Gardner had been silent (a feat in itself) has niggled at the back of Connie's mind.

It's only at this point that Elle realises that she has no idea what to do next. Her entire game plan had rested on them _reaching_ this stage; a major part of her had thought that Connie wouldn't have responded in any way which would be even marginally conducive towards her end goal. And now that she's here…she doesn't have any idea what to do.

"Here's the popcorn, Mum," Blake says, his sudden reappearance startling Elle out of her reverie. "Try not to spill this one, yeah?"

"I'll do my best," Elle promises, setting her phone down. Maybe watching the rest of this film will give her the inspiration she needs to come up with an even half-decent response…

.

It doesn't, and neither does its sequel – or the portion of the third film that she manages to stay awake for before crashing out on the sofa. Waking up with popcorn smushed into the left side of her face and the remnants of her wine soaked completely into her hair doesn't help either. And checking her phone to see that it's forty five minutes beyond her futile alarm and ten minutes before the official start of her shift causes all thought of the plot to get Connie Beauchamp to the ball to fall from her head entirely.

Because she hasn't got a chance of getting Connie Beauchamp to _anything_ , let alone a ball, if she's going to be late.

Dialling a too-familiar number as she dashes up the stairs, Elle prays for Jacob to answer.

For once, he does.

"Alright, pancake?" He answers the phone in his usual greeting.

"Jacob, I'm late," she says, the words splurging from her mouth in a steady stream. "I just woke up – and I'm going to be late, I have to drop the boys off because the buses are cancelled and, just, yeah, can you cover for me?"

"How long are you going to be?" Jacob replies instantly, no question of his support.

"Forty minutes max," Elle estimates, already stripping her crumpled clothing off and into the wash basket.

"No worries – if anyone asks, you were stuck in the A16 traffic. See you in a bit, pancake."

.

Tying her still wet hair into a bun as she strides into the Emergency Department, a flurry of speed and stress, Elle narrows her eyes to see if there's any danger icons flashing. So far, so good, she thinks as she rushes into the staffroom and towards her locker.

Then, surprisingly, it's no longer as safe.

"Doctor Gardner," a cool voice says from the other side of the room, causing Elle to jump.

"Morning, Connie," Elle replies, forcing herself to sound as breezy as possible. "Can you _believe_ the traffic?"

As she makes eye contact with the Clinical Lead, Elle has to suppress the faintest giggle. Of course, as usual, she would want to start laughing at the most inopportune moment.

"A19, wasn't it?" Connie replies cordially – or as cordially as a shark ever could.

"Sixteen," Elle corrects, not breaking eye contact as she opens her locker. "Sorry, I'll make it up at the end."

There's a beat of silence before Connie casually replies, "Wonderful," her crossed arms slowly lowering to her sides. Another few seconds of silence as she looks to each side and behind her before she continues, "Elle…Is everything okay?"

Elle blinks once, then twice, completely unable to place the question. It takes a few seconds for the scheming part of her brain to catch up to the 'I'm late and trying to avoid the consequences' part, and she can feel a nonplussed expression forming on her face.

"Erm, fine, thanks," she replies, adding a pre-planned tinge of curtness to her tone. "Just a lot on at the moment, you know?"

"I know," Connie agrees, taking a hesitant step towards Elle's general direction. "If there's…if there's anything I can do to relieve pressure here – at work, I mean – just let me know."

A flutter of suspicion runs through Elle, a knee-jerk reaction to such a statement coming from Connie, before the same warm glow as the previous evening.

"Thanks, Connie," Elle replies, hearing the insuppressible sincerity shine through in her voice. "I think I just need to relax with friends, you know? Maybe an evening soon…" She trails off, recognising the return of the 'I'm pretending to listen but I'm actually thinking about ten other things' expression to Connie's face.

"Okay, good," Connie replies, her usual distance returning. "Once you're ready, there are a lot of full cubicles waiting for you."

"No worries."

As Connie walks out of the staffroom, Elle lets out the long, deep breath that she hadn't realised she was holding. Somehow, barely, she's just about managed to get out of that predicament. Now to work out how to complete her master plan…

* * *

…

She doesn't believe Elle's excuse about the A16 traffic – after all, sitting in traffic would make it more, not less, likely that her hair would be dry, and the strong scent of shower gel corroborates that. But she passes the road test, Jacob vouched for her and, at this moment in time, she doesn't want to have an argument with Elle regarding the fact that she clearly slept in. No patients' lives were affected by it and she still wants to get to the bottom of her consultant's mood.

Despite sending the message at what Connie thought was a reasonable time last night, she didn't receive an answer; checking just before she went to bed, she was surprised to see that _Dylan_ had read the message, but Elle had not. Something felt fishy – and it still does now, despite the seeming sincerity of Elle's response in the staffroom.

"Doctor Kinsella," Connie calls belatedly, a few seconds after a blur of red and green passes her in the corridor.

"Yes, Mrs Beauchamp?" Bea replies, almost instantly standing by Connie's side.

"Doctor Keogh isn't in today – something to do with the paramedics, though I'm sure you'll know more than me," Connie comments, her thoughts distracted by Elle. "So, you'll be with Doctor Gardner today in cubicles."

"Oh, um, I thought I could use today to…" Bea begins to counter, before catching sight of Connie's face. "No worries, it'll be a good learning experience," she adds meekly, causing Connie to smile slightly.

"And if anything seems _off_ about Doctor Gardner – in her attitude, I mean, not how she is treating patients – please don't hesitate to come and see me," Connie continues, "I understand that it may feel strange coming to see me regarding a pastoral issue of a senior member of staff, but I assure you that there would be no repercussions for doing so, either on yourself or Doctor Gardner."

Bea's eyes narrow but, wisely, she once again decides to opt for silence. "Okay, I'll make sure I do," she replies. "See you later, Mrs Beauchamp."

Without replying, Connie turns on her heel and walks in the opposite direction towards her office, her slight fears about Elle Gardner placated by this temporary measure. Whilst she's not certain how likely it is to come to fruition, at least she's doing _something_ – and it's something which doesn't involve having an extended, awkward conversation at nine fifteen in the morning.

* * *

…

"Doctor Kinsella," Elle says, a hint of sharpness at the edge of her voice. For the fourteenth time in the last hour – at the very least – she's noticed the junior doctor looking at her with a concerned expression before averting her gaze when she realises she's been made.

"Yes, Doctor Gardner?" Bea replies, a suspicious edge of innocence in her voice.

"Have I got something on my face?" Elle asks. "Do I look tired today – more so than usual – and you're questioning how old I am? Is there some form of _bet_ going on in this department about me?"

"Um, no, nothing on your face," Bea says. "You don't look tired, and there's no bets on at the minute – well, beyond Noel's Christmas shindig bet, but Alicia told me that that's a yearly thing anyway."

"Then _what is it?"_ Elle bursts out with, lifting her arms in the air as she speaks. It's something that she's been known to do when she's frustrated; that and raise her head towards the ceiling, as if emulsioned white paint is going to help answer her question.

"I don't know what you mean," Bea feigns ignorance.

"Then what's with the concern, Bea?" Elle pushes. "I'm aware I'm not shouting at you or barking orders like Dylan does, but that shouldn't be a concern, should it?"

Bea's next actions seem strange. She takes a look behind her, casting a furtive glance to either side in the breakroom which, except for them, is empty. Then she closes both doors, and angles herself away from the windows.

"Okay, so you have to _promise_ me you won't tell Mrs Beauchamp that I've told you," Bea begins. "Because if you do, I think that she'd be _really_ mad. And I've just switched mentors, I don't want her to then get mad and—"

Elle cuts her off. "I promise I won't tell Connie," she assures, hiding one hand behind her back with her forefinger and index fingers crossed. Childish things like this have been something that have stuck with her, despite all the growing up that she's done over the years. "Now tell me: what is it?"

"Right, so when she told me that we'd be working together today, Mrs Beauchamp sounded a bit concerned about you," Bea explains. "It's like she just wanted me to keep an eye on you. She said that it was a 'pastoral' concern, not a work one – and that you wouldn't get in trouble if I told her anything."

A jolt of elation spreads through Elle, and it takes a great deal of effort to refrain from punching the air. Her plan – which isn't even really her plan, more of a whim which had wanted later inspiration – is working! Connie cares. Maybe she'll even care enough to come to the ball.

"Ah, okay, that makes sense," Elle replies neutrally.

"Why does she care?" Bea pushes, clearly intrigued by Elle's lack of response. "I mean, obviously she cares, but…you know what I mean?"

Faced with the split second decision about whether to bring Bea into the plan or not, Elle weighs up both options in her head. Bringing her on board would help her to make sure that she gets to see Connie this evening after work, where she could potentially broach the subject. _And_ Bea could even start to drop some hints regarding the ball – very, very subtly though, of course.

But bringing another person in, even someone like Bea, has its risks. As a junior doctor, Elle had been involved in a variety of different plots, and had blabbed on at least one or two. How can she be sure that Bea won't do the same?

Her decision's made before she even thinks about the negatives, however, and Elle smiles.

"If I tell you, you have to promise to keep it to yourself," Elle says sharply – or as sharply as she can with a broad smile on her face. "Not to Rash or to Alicia or even to your Dad. _Nobody_ can know about this, okay?"

"Sounds serious," Bea jokes.

"Oh it is," Elle agrees. "And I want it sworn on your future as a doctor that you won't tell anyone about it."

"I swear on my future as a doctor?" Bea replies. There's a question in her voice, but Elle ignores it. Any doubts about Bea Kinsella's ability to keep a secret can appear later.

"A year ago, Connie Beauchamp's ex, the father of her lovely daughter, was around – I say ex, it was all very complicated and nobody really knew what was going on," Elle begins, deciding that a bit of backstory is important. "In the middle of one of their arguments – or maybe just in the middle of who they were generally, I never quite decided – Connie received two invitations to the Cardiothoracic Ball or something like that, which she founded on Darwin years ago. To spite Sam, she invited me to take the second ticket, as the second in the department."

"So…to spite Sam Nicholls, she gave a ticket to you?" Bea frowns. "That doesn't make sense."

"Context, sorry, I meant Sam Strachan – the enigma," Elle clarifies. "So she gave me the ticket, I accepted it, and put it in my phone diary. Completely forgot all about it until a few days ago, when my phone reminded me. I asked Connie if she was going, and she said that she wasn't. I think that, after the year she's had, she should go, so I'm currently engaged in an undercover plot to get her to the ball."

"I thought that her ex and daughter lived in America."

"They do," Elle explains. "But they were here last year. Grace was here a lot more, before everything happened."

"So she lost them _and_ got cancer in the same year?" Bea blows out a hard breath. "That sucks, really, really sucks."

"It does," Elle agrees, "which is why I want to distract her a bit, get her to the ball."

"So what actually is the rest of your plan?" Bea pushes. "Is it something that I can get involved in? Or is it all ready to go?"

Elle laughs and breaks eye contact with the junior doctor, reluctant to reveal her complete lack of forward planning. "Well…it started with our group chat. I deliberately haven't messaged it for a few days, and got Dylan to drop some warning bells with Connie that something might be wrong with me. She asked me about being okay this morning, and I just about managed an answer. And that's where we're at."

"And the next step?"

"I'm open to suggestions."

"Right…" Bea trails off. "I think…Okay, so we roll with what we've got at the minute. You know, me looking out for you for Mrs B, that sort of thing. I throw her some red herrings, tell her that you're really struggling with something out of work."

"I like it so far," Elle replies, not having the heart to tell Bea that this was something she came up with fifteen minutes ago.

"I could start to drop hints, you know, sort of say that the kids are taking it out of you, you never really have time to relax, all you do is pick up their toys," Bea continues, and Elle has to stifle a snort. "And then she wants to talk to you…"

"Sounds wonderful," Elle begins, before her pager bleeps. "Damn, better get back to Cubicle Four. Sounds like a plan – tell her whatever you want about my pastoral health, Bea."

"Thanks for letting me get involved," Bea replies, standing up and heading towards the other door to Elle.

"But Bea?" Elle says, halfway out of the door. "My youngest child is seventeen, not seven. So make sure that I'm not traumatised by standing on lego or anything like that, okay?"

* * *

…

With a deep breath and solid determination to avoid allowing herself to smile, Bea knocks three times on Connie's door halfway through her shift.

"Come in," Mrs Beauchamp calls. "Oh. Doctor Kinsella. What can I do for you?" The Clinical Lead sounds dismissive until Bea enters the room fully and closes the door behind her.

"I just wanted to give you an update on Doctor Gardner," Bea explains, standing hesitantly in front of the desk.

"Of course, of course, take a seat," Connie replies, gesturing to one of the two visitor seats in front of her desk.

Taking a seat on the deceptively comfortable left hand seat, Bea begins. "Okay, so it might sound like little things, but you said to come with anything so…" She hesitates for a moment, collecting her thoughts before continuing. "She just seems…stressed. Not about work, just life. She said that her kids are annoying, always taking up her time and wanting to be driven everywhere, they come in late at night when she's trying to sleep with loads of girls and boys, and make loads of noise."

"Go on," Connie says when Bea pauses for breath.

"I think she could just do with some chilling time, you know?" Bea wonders whether she's being too open in dropping hints about the ball, but decides to go ahead regardless. "Like, she's tired but she also just needs to let her hair down."

"Hmmm," Connie murmurs, breaking eye contact from Bea and directing it down briefly to the drawers in her desk. Her attention soon returns to Bea, and she forces a small smile onto her lips. "Well, thank you, Doctor Kinsella. Your insight has been most useful."

"Doctor Gardner's not going to get into any trouble for any of this, is she?" Bea presses, deciding that it'd be best to play the part of a concerned junior doctor. "Because, like, her work's _amazing_. She cured a patient just by looking at them."

Connie's smile thins into almost a line. "Yes, well, if she could _quite_ manage that feat, Doctor Kinsella, we'd have a new incarnation of the Son of God in the department. I'll let you get back to work."

* * *

…

Five minutes before the end of her shift, Elle receives the awaited pager message – to enter Connie's office. She's unsurprised that it's come via the paging system; after all, Connie likes to make issues official, particularly between the pair of them.

"You wanted to see me?" Elle says as she pokes her head around the ajar door. "Everything okay?"

Connie doesn't say a word until Elle is seated opposite her. It's clear to Elle that she's struggling for the words to say – which suggests that it isn't an official process. Which is good; if it had been, she would have to come clean about the whole scheme, which would have only served to damage their relationship further.

"Elle, I've been thinking about Friday…"

"Friday?" Elle feigns ignorance. "You mean the day after tomorrow, yes?"

Connie rolls her eyes. "Of course I mean this Friday," she replies. "I understand if you have plans already…with your children…but if you'd like to accompany me to the Cardiothoracic Ball at the Royal Hotel, I'd be glad of the company."

Frowning slightly, Elle decides that she has to play the part of a confused person – but not too confused. The balance is delicate, especially with Connie Beauchamp. "I thought you said that you didn't plan on going to the ball?"

A small smile slips onto Connie's lips. "Yes, that's what I said," she agrees, breaking eye contact with Elle as she looks down into her drawers. "But I realised that I've been to every single other ball – even when I didn't live in Holby, I returned – and that this year should be no different. It'll be a nice way to relax, at least for an evening."

"Ah of course, the Connie Beauchamp legacy," Elle says, before pausing for a moment. She waits until she's certain that sincerity can ring through in every syllable, before making eye contact with Connie and adding, "I'd be honoured to go with you, Connie. Thank you for the invitation."

"Yes, well, you know that…if there's ever any issues…at home, you can talk to me – or there are these services who can provide assistance." Connie seamlessly passes three leaflets across to Elle, who is frozen in shock.

"I, er, yes of course," Elle mutters. "I think everything will just…fade away after a nice evening out though, you know what I mean?"

A slightly perplexed expression crosses Connie's face, before it returns to careful neutrality. "I'm sure that that will be the case, though it is my professional duty to ensure that you have access to any services that you may require," she says, almost word-for-word from the textbook on professional ethics that Elle glanced at in her brief stint as Clinical Lead.

"Wonderful – I'll make sure to read them in the bath this evening," Elle comments, picking up the leaflets. Can she get away with binning them in the department? Probably not – Connie's a hawk.

"I'll see you on Friday evening at the Royal Hotel at 7pm then, Doctor Gardner," Connie says, a hint of a smile in her voice. "And one thing? _Do_ make sure that you don't journey down the A16 to get there. I'd hate for you to be late?"

A smile creeps across Elle's face. "I'll make sure to avoid it," she promises. "See you later, Connie."

"And Doctor Gardner?" Connie adds, just as Elle opens the office door. "Be warned that purple is _my_ colour."

A comment about the connection between purple, silk and royalty flits into Elle's head, but she pushes it away, deciding that today isn't the day to tease Connie about her wardrobe idiosyncrasies.

* * *

…

With a deep breath, Elle steps out of the taxi at the Royal Hotel, aware that she's a few minutes ahead of schedule for meeting Connie. Her cream chiffon shawl covers her elbows and dips a little too far down her back, so she adjusts it marginally.

"Doctor Gardner." A clear, almost admiring voice in the distance gets Elle's attention, and she looks up from checking that her dress's hem is out of the mud (it is) to see Connie looking in her direction, a hand raised in greeting.

"Connie, wow, you look _fantastic_ ," Elle comments, completely unable to think of any words other than fantastic. Because, to be quite honest, there are hundreds of thousands of words which she could use to describe the Clinical Lead – well, sod that, her _friend_.

Cream skin offset by the deep purple silk (of course), floor length dress, Connie looks strangely on edge as Elle catches up to her. The dress is surprisingly high necked for Connie – though, thankfully, Elle processes the reason for this before she says anything.

The back, however, is completely absent, something which Elle realises swiftly has always been Connie's trademark. At least, her trademark at this ball anyway.

A smile slips onto Connie's lips as she pushes a piece of hair out of her eyes and looks briefly away from Elle. "Thank you," she replies warmly. "Your dress is stunning, I must admit. Where did you buy it from?"

"Er….in all honesty, no idea," Elle admits. "It's been in the back of the wardrobe for about ten years – I'm surprised it still fits."

Connie's eyes pass admirably over the bodice of the dress, and Elle feels a shiver when she realises that she has completely achieved Connie's approval. For what is probably the first time ever.

"Shall we enter?" Connie suggests, sweeping effortlessly across the gravel car park. "Invitation?"

"Invitation?" Elle repeats, her mind blank. It's definitely not in this small clutch – she thought about it, but didn't want to damage the beautiful paper. "Er… _damn_ , I think I, er, left it in the taxi," she continues meekly.

Connie's expression shifts and, for a split second, she rolls her eyes before glancing up at Elle. "Right, have my invitation."

"No, wait, Connie, you can't not go!" Elle blurts out. "I thought it would be great for you to come to this, that's all, I don't want you to not go. _I'll_ go home, not you."

A blank look appears on Connie's face and she gestures towards the person checking the tickets. "You do remember that _I_ created the event, Elle?" Connie clarifies. "I'm fairly certain I could arrive dressed as Ric Griffin and they'd recognise me."

 _Shit_ , Elle thinks. She's given herself away – for nothing. "Good point," she admits, "Shall we go in then?" She pushes, deciding that swiftly moving on from the conversation stands her in better stead of avoiding Connie realising that she was played to get here.

"Ah, Mrs Beauchamp," the invitation checker says with a smile. "Pleased to see you – I trust that you've been kept up to date with the planning?"

"Of course." There's a smile on Connie's face, but it's clear that she isn't interested in continuing the conversation. "Though I _would_ suggest in the future that we return to the more classic flower arrangements on the driveway? Tulips aren't the most appropriate, wouldn't you agree?"

"I will ensure that that is passed on to Miss Farmay," the gentleman confirms. "And if she asks again, what is your answer regarding taking over the planning again for next year as lead planner?"

"I'll think about it," is Connie's response before she sweeps by the welcome table and towards the towering stack of prosecco glasses.

"Wow, that was…" Elle trails off, her attention grasped by the sheer volume of alcohol. "Er, is this al for us?"

"I wasn't aware that you were such a prolific drinker," Connie comments with a smirk. "But yes, it is for all of the delegates," she replies.

Before Elle can say anything, a loud, "Ah, Mrs Beauchamp!" emanates from the other side of the room, and they're enveloped in a conversation with a series of consultants that she vaguely recognises from across the city. Maybe there's even some here from Holby – actually, scratch that, there definitely is. That woman from neurology…and is that Jac Naylor?

.

Three hours pass before there's a moment where Connie's opinion isn't being sought, and they collapse into two of the chairs in the corner of the room.

"You know that they'll find you in a minute," Elle laughs, taking a sip of her drink. "I hadn't realised that you were so popular."

"Thanks for that," Connie replies, an edge to her voice.

"You know what I mean," Elle tries to explain, realising the double meaning to her words. "I mean…medicine forgets quickly, doesn't it? You left cardiothoracic medicine, what, eight years ago? That's practically an age in such a specialist field."

"True," Connie acquiesces. "But I mean I have dabbled since, especially when I was in transplants. And, well, I should keep this quiet but – I'm looking at working on a cardiothoracic emergency care project as part of the trauma theatre."

" _Really_?" Elle asks. "But…I mean…you're just back." A sharp stare from Connie soon silences her, however.

"I know I've just returned. That doesn't mean that it's not something I've wanted to do for a while – and I'm able to do it, so why not?" Connie replies, her tone increasingly wistful. "After all, there's nothing else at the moment for me to do." It's the closest that she's ever come to admitting weakness in front of Elle Gardner – other than after the crash, of course.

"She'll come back, you know," Elle murmurs, avoiding eye contact with Connie. "He will too. If you want him."

Connie snorts. "What does it matter?" She says, her tone bitter. "But…thank you for this evening, Elle. I'm aware of your role in persuading me to be here."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Steadfastly ignorant is the way that Elle's decided to play this. "You invited me, remember."

"I know it was you," Connie retorts, making eye contact with Elle. "You made me come. I'm glad you did…you're…you're a good friend, Elle. Thank you."

"No problem," Elle replies, her smile widening despite herself. "It's a pleasure to be here with you, Connie."

Before either of them can say anything else, another group of surgeons approach.

"Excuse me, Mrs Beauchamp?" The youngest female in extraordinarily high heels says. "I was wondering if I could pick your brains on a few different projects I've heard you're an expert in. If you've got a minute, that is?"

Connie looks towards Elle, almost for approval, which causes her friend to laugh.

"Go for it, Mrs B," Elle gives her permission. "Provided one of your new associates can fetch me another glass of prosecco, that is?"

As she walks away, Connie looks back briefly at Elle and mouths, " _thank you_."

Their friendship might be tested at work. It might even be tested tomorrow morning – as Elle's almost definitely not going to be awake in time for her six am start. But she got Connie Beauchamp to the ball – and that's a big plus in their positives column.

* * *

Please tell me what you think!


End file.
